#islaselwynmacmillan

The House of Bones 22 March 1982 - afternoon @islaselwynmacmillan 

“How are you doing?”

The question felt silly to ask, consider the last time there had been a crisis Frank had done just about everything short of accusing Isla of being a spy—but she had her cool, calculating way of finessing her way out of situation like that. Maybe she had done the same this time, but it wasn’t her that the Death Eaters were looking for. Isla could have easily been the next Order member they had to rescue then.

It did occur to Frank, however, that the war soured many familial relationships. He had very few cousins, though many of them were so distant that he didn’t do much to keep up with them. He did feel sorry for the Greengrasses, with their cousin Lachlan on the Ministry’s radar from last month’s catastrophe. And he felt sorry for the Selwyns now; if one were to die, then at least die without having been caught behind a silver mask.

Then again, Julian Selwyn died defending his principles, which is about how most of the Order intended to make their exit anyway. The similarities were few and far between, but it was disquieting to think that there was someone who thought that it had been a noble death while calling James Potter a scoundrel in the same breath.  

Going for drinks with one of her sister’s killers had never been part of Annalise’s plan. Quite the opposite, really. She couldn’t think of anything more foolish than to let down her guard with a drink while hiding amongst the enemy.

But then, she hadn’t expected to see any friends within the Order’s ranks. When Isla had suggested that they meet for drinks— well, it would have been far more suspicious to refuse, wouldn’t it? Beside which, she enjoyed Isla’s company. The Order had already taken her sister from her; was she really going to allow it spoil her friendships too?

“Isla,” Annalise exclaimed in greeting as the other witch arrived, standing and leaning forward to kiss the air above her friend’s cheek. “It is so lovely to see you. It has been too long.” Raising her hand to call the bartender over, Annalise settled back into her seat. “How are you? How is your dear husband?”

LOCATION: McKinnon Farm DATE: March 12, 1982 @islaselwynmacmillan​

Marlene swore and bolted, not bothering to get her teacup down on the saucer -- or even the table. It didn’t matter; spilled tea could be cleaned, china cups could be repaired. One of the house-elves would probably have the whole mess dealt with before Marlene came back to deal with it -- if she remembered to come back and check at all. She’d already put the tea out of her mind. She had more important things to worry about: namely, the colt that had just gone flapping past the window.

She didn’t bother with a jacket or a cloak; she was lucky she’d already had shoes on, or she’d be running out barefoot. There was no time to waste on such niceties when one of their steed was bolting.

Marlene didn’t know what had happened -- if the colt had broken a tether, bucked a rider, or just been spooked at the wrong moment as it passed between the wards that served as the general equivalent of fences over the open air of their pastures. Maybe none of the above: sometimes a mount, especially one that was young and feisty, simply broke its way through the wards (they could have been cast stronger, but then you ran the risk of hurting the horses, and that was worse than the odd chance of one running -- or flying -- away; a mount that had strayed could be caught again, usually none the worse for wear). That was a question for later, though; all that mattered right now was catching it.

To that end, Marlene didn’t waste time running after the horse or shouting at it or shooting off any spells; that would have just startled the colt and made it flap harder. Instead she sprinted for the stables and, more importantly, the rack of broomsticks just inside the door. She grabbed one -- then as her brain caught-up and alerted her to what she’d barely noticed as she’d run past, a second.

Isla practically screamed again, and Ryland held her closer against his chest. “Shhh,” he whispered. He wasn’t telling her to be quiet, just providing a little sound reassurance. “Shhhh, it’s okay. Archie’s okay.”

“I could have lost him!” Isla sobbed against Ryland’s chest.

She’d held up so well. Ryland had found her, and she’d been so brave. She’d stepped right into danger herself to save her husband, which was more than Ryland could say he had done. Both had insisted he shouldn’t feel guilty, but he always would.

Isla made it exactly long enough for Archie to leave to find Gideon before she’d collapsed into a wailing puddle in Ryland’s arms.

“He’s safe. That’s all that matters,” Ryland said, still gentle against the top of her head. “Archie is safe. You’re safe. I’m safe. We’re okay, Isla. We’re all okay.”

It had only been a few days since the terrible night of at the Rosier estate. Things hadn’t gone to plan in the least and Isla who had never thought to run into any danger despite her affiliation with the Order had been thrust into a precarious situation. She could have fled in time before being caught perhaps. She could have made it out if she had been the true heartless witch that people whispered about. Isla Selwyn the girl too good for just her husband’s last name. The girl who doesn’t know how to crack a smile.

She heard it often in the circles of the elite. Though very few had the nerve to say anything to her face she knew that they whispered behind her back. Still her name had made her untouchable. Until now that is. She cared for few people in the world but her husband was one of them and she couldn’t abandon him to the hands of the enemy. That night was vivid and she recalled every detail. Yet she pushed it from her mind as she sat in the living room of the estate. A mug of tea cupped between her hands as she sat with her own thoughts.

For the past few nights she had grown closer to those who would no doubt kill her without a moments hesitation. She needed the information they had. Her resolve to be with the Order grew stronger every day and she would do her part to take down the whole lot of death eaters. Tonight wasn’t for that though. She needed a break. A moment to breathe. A noise drew her attention to the doorway and a small smile came to her lips. “Join me for a cup of tea?”

“Tea? Here?”

What was once a gathering place felt much like a morgue, despite the fact that only one person had died. Frank remembered the last time he had properly chatted with Isla—over lunch, one that he had intruded, but one where he didn’t get the answer that he was hoping for then. This time, though her stoicism was still impenetrable, she offered the invitation, and Frank took it.

He took a seat in one of the empty armchairs. Frank was always careful around Isla—she was a powerful ally to the Order, but that didn’t mean that Frank wasn’t sure what her intentions were. She didn’t seem like the type to reveal anything to anyone who had bad intentions, but she could have associated herself with much more powerful people. Why them?

If she had information regarding the Death Eaters, maybe Frank could be helpful. She was one of the few who hadn’t made it to headquarters in the next day—or at least, Frank didn’t remember seeing her there. That evening was mostly a blur, except when Alice had dived into his arms after he had waited for too long.

But it wasn’t a witness statement Frank had gotten to with Isla. Instead Frank insisted on trying to figure out her endgame. “So, is it a risk still, being here? Or has that risk finally turned to sacrifice?”

@islaselwynmacmillan​ at Diagon Alley - in front of Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor 18 March 1982

Frank had not been to Flourish and Blotts in months, nor has he returned to Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor. He had filed the report, but it wasn’t something that the Aurors thought to pursue—which was predictable, because obviously vandalism wasn’t on par as murder as far as what’s worth the effort to investigate. He did, however, contemplate momentarily as he passed: would the Ministry have bothered to look into something like this before the war started?

The Ministry has undeniably lost their touch but there was something more that hampered it than just the idea that Death Eaters were slippery fiends. He wasn’t in the mood for ice cream—it was March, and even if the ice cream parlor was warm on the inside, he didn’t have the appetite for it.

As a familiar face came into view, Frank lifted his gloved hand out of his pocket to wave. He remembered the last time he had chatted with Isla; he didn’t think he had been that tough with her when he asked her about her loyalties. He didn’t think she had been particularly impassioned about being involved in the Order, but he didn’t think she lied either.

No, Isla was not the person he should be worried about.